


ohio

by fliptomybside



Category: Harry Styles (Musician), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 19:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15103556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fliptomybside/pseuds/fliptomybside
Summary: everything's gonna be better on the west coast, mitch thinks.





	ohio

**Author's Note:**

> Ooooof. This is all [La's](http://ferryboatpeak.tumblr.com) fault. I'm tired but Mitch pressed his forehead against Harry's and Harry stuck his tongue out and now I'm here. Title from Ohio - Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness, unbeta-ed so all mistakes are mine, pleASE don't let the real people that this is about see it, etc. etc.

**i. Cincinnati**

Mitch is never going to forget the smell of this room. It smells like a thousand different kinds of old. Old paint, old socks, old dust, old beer, and a little bit like the stacks of the library Mitch frequented just enough to remember.

He squints.

There’s still a small hole where he used one of those command strips to hang up a Joni Mitchell poster sophomore year. The university charged him and Ryan $35 a piece and never fixed it.

“Hey,” Ryan says from across the room, and his voice kind of echoes, that’s how empty it is now, most of their stuff loaded into Mitch’s mom’s minivan, “I can fucking hear you being nostalgic, stop it, we haven’t even left yet.”

Mitch clears his throat. 

“I am not,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “nostalgic. I’m thinking about how this room still smells bad.”

“Sure,” Ryan mutters, half in the closet that still doesn’t have a door.

Mitch can’t remember now if it ever did. He flops back on his bare mattress and stares up at the faint water stains in the ceiling, listens to Ryan’s muffled curses and the zipping and unzipping of the too-many duffel bags they have between them.

“Don’t think all of your clothes are going to fit in the car, dude,” Mitch says, letting his eyes close.

Ryan doesn’t answer and Mitch focuses on the way the mattress’s plastic cover is sticking to the back of his calves. Mitch tries not to let himself think about the years of bodily fluids that have undoubtedly contaminated it. 

He must fall asleep, as uncomfortable as the room is in the early May heat, because the next second Ryan’s shaking him and then rolling him off the bed.

“Okay,” he says, “you can be nostalgic now, but only if you help me carry the rest of this shit down to the car.”

Mitch glares at him from the floor but he tucks his hair behind his ears, shoulders the smallest of the bags, and follows Ryan down the stairs because naturally they ended up in the dorm without an elevator.

It’s a tight fit, because Ryan actually does have a shit ton of clothing. And shoes. Mitch glares at him. 

“Don’t,” Ryan groans, shouldering the last bag into the trunk.

“Not sure Tammy’s minivan is going to survive this trip,” Mitch says, and Ryan just flips him off and tosses him the keys. 

“Wendy’s,” Ryan says the second Mitch gets the keys into the ignition, “we gotta do Wendy’s. Bookend our time in Cincy.”

Mitch is already sweating and the air conditioning in the minivan hasn’t worked since sophomore year. He almost hits more than one car backing out of the parking space, their combined luggage blocking the view in the rearview mirror. 

“Fine,” he says, pretending to be annoyed even though his stomach growls right on cue, “but you’re paying.”

The Wendy’s parking lot is blessedly empty. The minivan sputters when Mitch pulls into a spot and puts it in park and he winces. 

This particular Wendy’s is adequately air conditioned and is maybe the cleanest fast food place that Mitch has ever been in. 

“You’re paying,” he says when Ryan starts to make a beeline for a table, “go, you know what to get.”

Ryan glares at him but he goes.

“At least get a booth by the window, jesus, making me do all the work.”

Mitch does, the vinyl seat sticking uncomfortably to his legs. He watches Ryan at the counter to make sure he orders appropriately. Two orders of fries, two chocolate frosties. Salt and sugar, guaranteed to clog their arteries and quell the growl of Mitch’s stomach.

“You’re welcome,” Ryan says, sliding into the booth and dropping Mitch’s frosty and order of fries in front of him. 

“You’re welcome for providing transportation. And for not asking for gas money.”

Ryan kicks at his shin under the table and they eat in silence for a minute. Mitch is so hungry that he can feel the first sip of frosty all the way down to his stomach. He groans. 

“This might be better than sex,” he says, dipping a fry in the frosty and popping it in his mouth.

Ryan laughs.

“Pretty sure you’re not doing it right, then,” he says.

“I don’t know,” Mitch says, dipping another fry and licking it obscenely, “maybe you’re not doing it right.”

Ryan rolls his eyes and steals one of Mitch’s fries even though he has his own.

“It’s gonna be weird. Like, living together for real, you know?”

Mitch stares at him.

“So what were the last three years? Fake?”

“A trial run. Making sure I could stand sharing a room with you and your dirty socks full time.”

Mitch ends up finishing his own fries and Ryan’s when he gives up three quarters of the way through, and he’s hungry again by the time he finally drops Ryan off and helps him unload everything. He does feel nostalgic now that they’re home, like they’ve finally reached the end of something that’s concrete but still feels nebulous. 

“Thanks, man,” Ryan says, and he pulls Mitch into a hug, sweaty and still smelling like their room, “see you in a week.”

He’s grinning so wide when Mitch pulls back that he thinks Ryan’s face might split in two. A week from now, Ryan’ll be back from his last family vacation and they’ll be road tripping across the country to LA and not coming back. Not for the foreseeable future, anyway. 

The thought of it makes Mitch’s stomach twist in a way that’s not quite good but not quite bad, either. He still feels unsettled when he pulls into his own driveway, and it takes him a few minutes to force himself out of the van.

His mom’s out of the house before his feet even hit the pavement and she pulls him into a hug that smells markedly different from Ryan’s, like dryer sheets and the perfume his dad gets her every Christmas. 

“Welcome home,” she says into his hair, “can’t believe you’re going to be gone again in a week.”

Mitch hugs her a little tighter and doesn’t let her carry any of his bags inside, just gives her a gentle push in the direction of the living room where his dad’s got HGTV on.

His room feels claustrophobic by the time he gets all of his stuff in it. He feels too big for it in a way that kind of makes him want to peel his own skin off, like he just spent the last four years dying to come home to a place that doesn’t feel the same anymore, and now his brain doesn’t have a goal to latch on to. 

Ryan’s already texted him a photo of himself in the back seat of his parent’s station wagon en route to the lake and for a second Mitch regrets declining the invitation to go with them. He’d thought he’d be dying to sink into his own bed for the last time, but now that he’s here, it’s stifling and he has nothing to focus on but his own thoughts which is never good. 

He swallows an ativan dry and lifts a box of honey nut cheerios from the kitchen and pretends to be asleep when his mom pops her head in an hour later.

**ii. Los Angeles**

LA is really dry, not muggy like Ohio, and if Mitch feels like walking for an hour, apparently he’ll be able to see the ocean. By the time they get there, Mitch never wants to see the inside of Ryan’s car again. He’s pretty sure he’s never smelled worse in his life and he definitely doesn’t feel like expending the effort to lug the too many bags he brought with him inside.

“The promised land,” Ryan grins over at him, apparently not as aggravated by the last six hours in the car as Mitch is. 

“Yeah,” Mitch says, sniffing the air, “smells like the quad during finals week.”

Ryan laughs, and it does. Like desperation and cheap beer and faintly like trash that’s been sitting out in the sun. Their apartment’s fine. It’s not in the greatest neighborhood, but Ryan’s friend from high school used to live in this complex, apparently, and he lived to tell the tale, so they agreed to take over his lease. 

It’s stuffy inside, probably because the windows haven’t been opened in a month, and the fridge is empty but stained and Mitch gags a little at the thought of having to scrub it out. 

“This is it,” Ryan says, waiting for Mitch to finish the line. 

“The beginning of the rest of our lives,” Mitch says, because he can’t not, and it might be stuffy and the fridge might be stained but it’s not Ohio and Mitch thinks he likes that. 

It’s technically a two bedroom apartment, but if Mitch is honest, the bedrooms are really more like closets, even after spending the last four years in a too small dorm room.

“Think I’m gonna be a minimalist going forward,” Mitch says when they pull out of the Aldi parking lot, trunk full of Mitch’s favorite cereal and frozen pizza. 

Ryan ends up scrubbing the fridge. Mitch takes the bathroom, which is actually passable. He thinks about the fact that he has to get a job, because his savings will be gone by the end of the month. Rent in LA is expensive, even with a roommate, and Ryan already has a job because he’s a fucking overachiever. 

They don’t have internet yet and Mitch isn’t tired enough to go to sleep, so he grabs his laptop and heads for the Starbucks that’s a few blocks away, leaving Ryan asleep in his room, sheets not even on his bed yet. He applies for every fast food and restaurant job he can find on craigslist. His eyes are burning by the time he finally shuts his laptop and heads back to the apartment. 

Ryan’s got a pizza in the oven when he gets back. Mitch can smell it the second he walks in the door and his stomach starts growling. The coffee feels like acid in his stomach and he knows pizza will probably make it worse, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“You,” he says, putting his laptop down on the kitchen table, “are a god among men and I owe you my life.”

Ryan crosses his arms and leans back against the sink to look at him.

“I’m gonna remember you said this,” he says, “and you’re probably gonna regret it.”

“Probably,” Mitch agrees, and he sits down and lets the wall of exhaustion hit him, only prying his head up off the table when Ryan pulls the pizza out of the oven. 

-

Ryan goes off to his cushy job at a recording studio and Mitch eventually gets a job as a bus boy at a restaurant that’s uncomfortably fancy. Everyone in the kitchen speaks spanish and Mitch has forgotten more than he ever learned when he took it sophomore year of college. It’s not Mitch’s first rodeo in the world of food service, but it’s different than it was in Ohio. It’s not the student dining hall. The customers are rich and Mitch is constantly sweating and his boss actually cares what he looks like when he shows up to work. He frowns at Mitch’s hair and Mitch starts combing it back into a ponytail. 

“I gotta quit,” he groans, letting himself fall face first into the couch, not caring about all of the stains on his shirt and pants.

The cleanliness of the couch is already questionable, so Mitch doesn’t feel bad contributing, even though he sees Ryan wince before he lands.

“You do,” he says, and he’s staring down at Mitch when Mitch rolls over.

“I’m gonna be honest, didn’t really think it would be like this.”

Ryan ruffles his hair like he’s a kid and it makes Mitch’s stomach feel squirmy because he feels like a kid, barely making it running food and cleaning tables and Ryan’s just. Doing everything Mitch thought he would do, really.

-

Predictably, his savings dry up within the first two months. He gets a second job, works the early shift and Wendy’s and keeps bussing tables at night and he and Ryan make the forty five minute drive to the pier every Sunday afternoon.

It’s not what Mitch thought it would be, even sitting on a bench in Santa Monica and smelling the ocean and playing his guitar. It’s not the worst, even when he’s being honest with himself at three in the morning. He can’t eat frosties anymore and maybe never wants to see a Wendy’s again for the rest of his life, but he gets to have this, and he gets Ryan’s stories, rubbing shoulders with people Mitch can only dream about being in the same room with. 

Ryan gets laid more than he ever did in college, and Mitch buys earplugs from the CVS around the corner from their apartment and spends a lot of time elsewhere, pointedly not thinking about how long it’s been since he last got laid. 

“You should come out some Saturday,” Ryan says to him casually, like he hasn’t said it a hundred times before. 

“I work every Saturday night,” Mitch says, and the words taste a little bitter on his tongue. 

In theory, he hates the Ryans of the world right now. The ones who get to go out and let loose every Saturday, who have people like Mitch at their beck and call. 

“Dude,” Ryan says seriously, grabbing his arm as he walks by the couch, “you do have to take a vacation at some point, okay? Don’t burn yourself out.”

Mitch pauses long enough to flick Ryan’s ear in response and then takes a long, cold shower. 

**iii. Pizza**

Somehow, three years down the line, Mitch is still working in a restaurant. A pizza shop this time, and he works in the back, so he doesn’t have to interact with people too much, but still. Ryan comes in sometimes on his lunch break, and they talk about covers and what coffee shop or bar they should try playing next. 

“I just don’t think Bob Dylan’s right for a bar, you know?”

Mitch pulls his sunglasses down his nose so Ryan can see him roll his eyes.

“Bob Dylan is right for every situation, Ryan, jesus.”

“In LA though? I’m not sure.”

Mitch bites his tongue and looks at his watch. He has five minutes left and he doesn’t really want to spend it arguing the Dylan point. 

“Miles Davis,” Mitch says with one minute of his break left, and Ryan doesn’t even bother to argue.

“Fine,” he says, but he sounds more excited than defeated so Mitch takes it as a win. 

-

His bedroom always smells faintly like grease. They have a nicer apartment now that Mitch can only afford because Ryan’s his best friend and he only charges Mitch for his bedroom. Mitch feels bad about that and about the fact that he brings the smell of grease with him everywhere he goes. 

He keeps his work clothes in plastic bags at the bottom of his closet, because he has a bedroom that contains a closet now instead of one that practically is a closet. And this way the smell doesn’t seep into the clothes he wears on days off. It’s not that he doesn’t wash them, because he does, but the smell of pizza grease is preternaturally strong and Mitch doesn’t really want to walk around smelling like that all the time, even if his room kind of does.

Mitch vacuums and cleans the bathroom and liberates his last box of honey nut cheerios from the kitchen and closes his bedroom door behind him. Ryan’s working late, Mitch thinks, or he’s at a girl’s house, but he still feels weird spreading out in shared spaces.

It’s not like college anymore. Mitch doesn’t really feel like they’re on equal footing, because he works in a pizza shop and Ryan--well, Ryan doesn’t. 

-

“If I didn’t know you,” Ryan slurs in his ear, “I would have no idea how much you love this.”

Mitch smirks and shrugs, lifts his guitar off and puts it gently in the case his brother had gotten him right before they drove out to LA. His drum sticks are in there, too, the ones he spent too much money on the summer after junior year of college. Mitch misses his drum kit. He tries not to let himself think about it.

“Good thing you know me,” he says, tucking his hair behind his ears and taking the beer Ryan hands him. 

It’s Rolling Rock and it makes Mitch think of senior year of high school, trying to get drunk off of it then crashing his neighbor’s above ground pool. 

Mitch chugs it and hopes it’ll go right to his head as he follows Ryan back out into the bar. 

“Listen,” Ryan mumbles, minutes or maybe hours later, “‘m gonna get you in the studio for something. Soon.”

Mitch can’t remember if he was drunk before but he definitely isn’t drunk now. He definitely isn’t drunk and he’s acutely aware of all of his skin and how suffocating his long hair is and exactly how drunk Ryan is.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” he says, and his voice sounds too even. 

Ryan must actually be listening to him because he starts patting Mitch heavily on the shoulder, like he’s using Mitch to hold him up more than anything else.

“‘S gonna happen, ‘m just. ‘M sorry it’s taken so fucking long, but I can feel it. It’s gonna happen for you.”

Ryan smiles at him, wide and bleary eyed and Mitch feels guilty about the fact that Ryan might in any capacity also feel guilty. Fuck.

“Think you’re good for tonight, dude, I’m gonna call an Uber.”

“Miiiitch,” Ryan whines, putting his head down on the bar top.

Mitch winces. It’s definitely time for them to head home.

Ryan’s still whiny when Mitch packs him into the Uber. He lets his head fall into Mitch’s lap when Mitch crawls into the car after him, and Mitch is too tired to nag him about putting his seatbelt on.

“Mitch,” Ryan slurs, “girls. Giiiiirls.”

Mitch blinks. 

“Girls.”

“Any girl,” Ryan starts, “would love you.”

Mitch snorts. 

-

Ryan’s painfully hungover the next morning, so Mitch takes his time in the shower, figures the less pleasant this is for Ryan the less likely he is to repeat it. 

He’s sprawled out on the couch when Mitch pads out of the bathroom, hair wrapped up in a towel that he knows looks ridiculous. He stares at Ryan, daring him to say anything about it or the towel wrapped around Mitch’s waist. 

“I wasn’t that bad,” Ryan whines, but Mitch knows it’s kind of a lie because it’s a Monday and normally Ryan would be at work by now. 

Mitch just grins at him and walks to the kitchen and makes a beeline for the coffee. 

It’s strong. Stronger than Ryan usually makes it, but Mitch swallows it anyway, winces a little at how bitter it is. 

He shoves Ryan’s feet off the couch and lets himself melt into the corner. He wrapped the towel around his head a little too tightly and it’s starting to give him a headache, but he feels like it’s weirdly painful for Ryan to look at, so he leaves it. 

“I was thinking,” Ryan starts, and Mitch groans.

“Hey! I was thinking, like, what about music lessons? There’s gotta be tons of kids in LA dying to learn guitar. And tons of rich parents who want their kids out of their hair for at least an hour a day.”

Mitch tries to keep his face blank. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. He has, at length, but not about doing it in LA. Mostly he’s thought about going home and getting the teaching certification that he should’ve done in the first place. It’s not like his english degree is going to get him anywhere.

“Yeah,” Mitch says, patting Ryan’s shin, “you’re right, I should look into it.”

**iv. Harry**

Ryan’s pretty much the only one texting him these days besides his mom, so Mitch lets it go when his phone buzzes in his pocket in the middle of a busy shift. He doesn’t get a break for another hour, and he’s sweaty and there’s a tomato sauce stain on his shirt that’s probably not going to come out. 

Ryan’s texted him six times. 

‘Mitchell’

‘Mitchell you’re gonna love me’

‘Even more than you already do’

‘Please tell me you’re off tomorrow’

‘I know im being a shitty friend right now because i can’t remember your schedule but’

‘A studio musician backed out and i need a guitar player for this guy’s debut album. Tomorrow. I’ll drag you in if i have to’

Mitch squints at his phone. The screen’s still cracked from when he dropped it on the kitchen floor three weeks ago. Maybe it was longer ago, Mitch can’t remember, but he does know he’s not going to waste money getting it fixed.

Maybe his brain’s a little cracked, too, after the afternoon he’s had, because he doesn’t really feel anything reading Ryan’s texts. He can feel Ryan’s excitement, but he can’t really find his own. 

‘If you’re fucking with me,’ Mitch types out carefully, ‘i’m moving back to ohio tonight’

He pockets his phone and forces himself to go back inside even though he has five minutes of his break left. 

-

“Why the fuck would you think I was fucking with you?” Ryan yells, bursting in and startling Mitch’s manager.

“Language,” she says sharply, and Ryan doesn’t even look chastened. 

“Dude,” he says at a slightly lower volume, “seriously, this is like. It’s big, okay. It’s Harry Styles?” 

Mitch doesn’t not know who Harry is, but he doesn’t really know who Harry is. It doesn’t matter, anyway, of course Mitch is going to fucking do it, because he’s an idiot but he’s not that big an idiot. 

“I have off tomorrow, so. Just tell me when and where.”

“Mitchell Rowland,” Ryan says, grinning so wide he looks maniacal, “you’ve got the best poker face I’ve ever seen but I know you’re screaming inside.”

Mitch grins and pulls Ryan into a hug. He’s not wrong.

-

Mitch is worried about breathing too hard in a studio this nice. The toilet paper in the bathroom probably costs more than Mitch’s guitar. Ryan pulls everyone there into hugs and introduces Mitch and Mitch immediately forgets everyone’s name.

He only remembers Harry’s because Harry’s british and long haired and his mouth is huge and the fact that he’s always chewing gum only draws more attention to it. 

“Ryan says you’re a monster,” he says, shaking Mitch’s hand and grinning.

He has dimples and pronounces monster like ‘monstah’ and Mitch just. Gives him a tight smile and hopes Harry’s not too grossed out by how sweaty Mitch’s palm is. He must not be, because he pulls Mitch into a huge that Mitch wasn’t expecting, so he goes, lets Harry pull him in. His hair tickles Mitch’s nose and he’s still grinning when Mitch pulls back.

“Don’t know about that, but. I’ll do my best.”

Harry claps him on the shoulder, still chomping slowly at his gum in a way that makes Mitch think of an animal grazing. 

-

“I like Mitch’s idea,” Harry says where he’s curled around Mitch on the couch.

Mitch can’t really remember what his idea was because he’s too preoccupied with Harry’s octopus limbs. Namely the way his arm is draped across Mitch’s chest. 

“Of course you do,” Jeff says from Harry’s other side, and Mitch shifts uncomfortably.

Harry just shifts with him, leans into Mitch’s space like they’ve known each other for years. Mitch can feel Ryan’s eyes on them and he pointedly doesn’t look in Ryan’s direction.

“Well, I’m glad someone does,” Mitch says after a minute, and it makes Harry bark out a laugh that doesn’t really fit his face and Mitch can’t stop himself from smiling.

Ryan smirks at him the whole ride home. Mitch’s cheeks ache from smiling so much and he doesn’t even care because it felt like college again. The good moments, the moments when he and Ryan were on the top of the world together, grinning at each other on stage or across crowded rooms and Mitch felt like he was on even ground.

He punches Ryan in the shoulder before he gets out of the car and races him up to their apartment.

“Harry wants you to come back tomorrow,” Ryan says, panting slightly from running up the stairs.

Mitch bites at his tongue.

“Can’t tomorrow. Pulling a double, but I’m free on Thursday?”

He tries to sound like he doesn’t really care but he’s not sure he manages it, not with the way Ryan’s looking at him. 

“You really hit it off, huh?”

Mitch shrugs. Harry was--a lot. Heavy and charming and minty breath and raspy voice and effortlessly inhabiting the kind of life Mitch always dreamed about. He tries not to think about the weight of Harry’s body against his side. 

“He seemed all right.”

“All right?” Ryan asks, hip checking Mitch on the way to the fridge. 

“I mean, you know him better than I do at this point, so.”

“So,” Ryan drawls, cracking open a coke, “Harry’s never liked any of my ideas.”

Mitch can feel his cheeks going red and it’s horrifying. 

“Guess Harry could tell I paid my dues,” Mitch says, and he feels a tiny pang of guilt when he says it because there’s a flicker of hurt on Ryan’s face that he hasn’t seen in a long time. 

“Yeah,” Ryan says slowly after a second, his face softening, “well, you have.” 

They retire to the couch with a bowl of microwave popcorn even though it’s late and Mitch is working a double and he knows he’ll regret it tomorrow. There are Kardashian reruns on and Mitch can’t say no, so he tucks his feet underneath Ryan’s thighs and hoards the popcorn. 

“He’s leaving to film a movie in a few weeks,” Ryan says a while later, eyes still glued to the tv. 

Mitch’s fingers scrape the bottom of the bowl of popcorn and he doesn’t like how it feels.

**v. Habits**

Mitch lets himself get used to it anyway. Way too comfortable, if he’s honest. A week turns into two weeks and then Mitch has his own spot on the couch in the studio. Harry’s spot is right next to his. 

“Next time you see me,” Harry says, drawing circles around the rip in Mitch’s jeans, just north of his knee, “I’ll be bald.”

“Harry,” Jeff groans, clapping his hands over his face, and Mitch laughs because when he looks over at Harry he’s smiling like he’s trying not to laugh and his eyes are huge and tired and his hair’s stringy and Mitch can’t imagine him any other way.

“That’s a deal breaker for me, so. It’s been nice knowing you.”

Harry laughs loudly and lets his head drop to Mitch’s shoulder. 

“Can’t believe my hair’s the only thing keeping you around,” he says, and Mitch tries not to move a muscle.

He wants to tuck this moment away, the heat radiating from Harry’s body and the way he’s surrounded by people who aren’t questioning the fact that he belongs there. 

“Sorry,” Mitch says, patting Harry’s knee, “probably shouldn’t have kept it from you for so long.”

They get a little drunk, but not excessively because Harry has an early flight out the next morning. Mitch tries not to hover too close, gravitates toward Ryan and joins Jeff in taking pictures that would embarrass anyone but Harry. 

He looks nervous when he’s not distracted and he’s wearing Mitch’s high school marching band t-shirt. It’s a little tight on him, stretched across the shoulders, and Mitch can’t even remember how it ended up in Harry’s possession but he’s not going to ask for it back. 

“You’re not allowed to forget me,” Harry slurs later, burying his face in Mitch’s neck. 

He smells clean and faintly like Mitch’s laundry detergent. Mitch lets himself lean into Harry a little bit, because odds are this is the end of this phase of Mitch’s life. He’s going to go back to making pizza full time tomorrow and in a few weeks this’ll feel like a fever dream. A fever dream in which Harry’s lips brush against Mitch’s neck when he pulls back, and Mitch can’t tell from the look on Harry’s face whether it was an accident or not. 

Harry tries to climb in his and Ryan’s Uber at the end of the night and Jeff has to hold him back. Harry’s spectacularly clumsy when he’s drunk, all spaghetti limbs and grabby hands.

“Kiiiss me and smile for me, tell me that you’ll wait for me,” Harry sings, and Mitch laughs out loud because his voice is rough and cracked but he still sounds good because he’s Harry. 

“Try not to embarrass yourself,” Mitch says, climbing into the backseat. 

“Don’t worry,” he hears Ryan say, “he’ll wait for you, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Mitch punches him when he gets in the car and Ryan just shrugs.

“We all know it’s true, dude, you should hear Jeff talk about how he is with you.”

Mitch flips him off and scrolls mindlessly through his phone. He wants to text Harry but he doesn’t. He texts his mom instead, sends her a picture from the studio that’ll carry her through Christmas, telling all of her friends with relief in her voice that Mitch finally made it, even if it isn’t true. 

-

Mitch’s life tilts back on its axis. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed at how familiar it feels. He starts smelling like pizza all the time again and tells himself it was only two weeks so he probably smelled like pizza then, too, and just didn’t realize it. 

Maybe Harry has a thing for pizza. Maybe that’s why he was always hanging all over Mitch, even when Mitch felt like he didn’t bring anything to the table. 

He thinks about texting Ryan, elbow deep in pizza dough.

‘Hey, did harry and i get along because i smelled like pizza all the time and he just really likes pizza?’

He doesn’t, because he’s an idiot but he doesn’t have a death wish, and Ryan would subject him to unbearable lifelong torture if he ever brought up Harry’s potential feelings.

He watches his hands sink into the bowl of dough and thinks about how the calluses on his fingers are going to soften again now that he’s not playing as much. He thinks about going back to playing sparsely populated bars on Sunday nights with Ryan, doing Bob Dylan covers that everyone else thinks are out of place.   
“I’m gonna fly home next weekend,” Ryan says when Mitch gets in that night, “spend some time with my parents while I have a break.”

“Cool,” Mitch nods, and doesn’t think about the yawning black hole the apartment becomes when Ryan’s not there. 

“You could tag along if you want, I have miles from this credit card I opened a while back. A flight wouldn’t be too bad with them.”

Mitch hums, digging around in the refrigerator for something to eat.

“Think we’re pretty cleaned out, but we can hit Chipotle if you want.”

“Yeah,” Mitch says, “okay. And I probably should take as many shifts as I can, my manager’s still breathing down my neck for taking too much time off. Thanks, though.”

“Have you thought about quitting?”

Mitch turns around to face Ryan. His arms are crossed and he has a serious look on his face that Mitch associates with the time he failed chem lab freshman year of college and had to back out of their summer plans to make up for it.

“Uh,” he starts. 

Ryan raises his eyebrows.

“No? I mean, it’s a steady job, and I need that, so.”

“Okay,” Ryan hedges, “but Harry is gonna come back, and he is gonna want you back in the studio. I mean, if you want, no pressure, obviously, but that’s going to be an option.”

Mitch shrugs. 

“Okay,” he says, because saying anything else would be revealing and Mitch isn’t really in the mood for a heart to heart about his career or Harry Styles.

**vi. Comfortably numb**

It takes a month, but Mitch eventually starts to feel almost normal again in a way that makes him wish he never met Harry. 

Time slows back down. Mitch gets promoted, kind of, to assistant kitchen manager. He saves all of his money and only gets drunk on Monday nights so he doesn’t have to face Ryan’s pleading looks the next morning. 

‘Are you purposely picking up sunday shifts so we cant get drunk together,’ Ryan texts him on his break, like a friendly reminder that he can still kind of read Mitch’s mind.

‘Paranoid,’ Mitch types back, and then, ‘some of us are fiscally responsible’

He watches Ryan type his response and wipes the sweat off of his forehead.

‘Sure,’ Ryan types, ‘but you aren’t’

Mitch doesn’t dignify it with a response.

-

He caves and goes out with Ryan that Sunday. Barkowski, apparently, is Ryan’s new favorite.

“You fit right in here,” he says when they take a seat at the bar. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mitch deadpans, but they have the craft beer that he really likes and Ryan’s paying and Mitch has actually missed this.

He picks up a girl. He doesn’t do it on purpose, because the last thing he wants to deal with is Ryan’s smirky face for the next month, but. 

She’s cute. Mitch’s type, if he has one, short brown hair and a septum piercing, a tiny silver ring drawing attention to her perfect nose. She has a topless mermaid tattooed on her upper arm and that’s what makes Mitch kiss her. 

“We can go back to mine,” she whispers in his ear, lips brushing against his skin in a way that makes Mitch shiver. 

“Yeah,” he says, hoping the word doesn’t get lost in the noise, “yeah, okay.”

Her place is a lot nicer than Mitch and Ryan’s, and she lives alone. 

“Can’t imagine having a roommate at this point,” she giggles against his mouth, her lips slipping down and dragging along his jaw. 

She’s all smooth skin and perfect tattoos, inky and blurred in the dark of her bedroom, and Mitch feels so fucking out of his depth. 

He kisses her slowly. Draws sighs out of her mouth and peels off her shirt, kisses around the tiny silver bar through her left nipple. He doesn’t let himself think about anyone but her and he focuses on the noises she makes and the smooth fabric of her sheets.

He eats her out, her legs draped over his shoulders and his knees bruising against her hardwood floor. It’s been a long time, longer than Mitch really wants to think about, but it’s like riding a bike, really. Letting her arch against the press of his tongue and losing himself in the high pitched sighs she can’t seem to stop making. Mitch is half hard in a way that feels far off so he kisses her down from it, making his way back up her body and letting her legs drop against the mattress.

“Yeah,” she breathes, when he stretches out next to her, still clothed, “okay.”

-

She’s asleep when he wakes up. It’s four in the morning, he realizes when he digs his phone out of his back pocket, so it makes sense that she’s still out, her chest rising softly, piercings glinting slightly even in the dark. Mitch gets up slowly, winces when the mattress creaks, but she just rolls over and stretches out on her stomach, the skin of her back smooth and unmarked. 

He feels guilty that he didn’t get her name, and again when he leaves a note without his phone number. He compliments her Mr. Rogers post it notes instead.

Ryan’s still in bed when Mitch gets back to the apartment. Either that or he crashed somewhere else, and either way Mitch is grateful that he doesn’t have to face him. He slips into the shower, washes the grime of the bar and the sweat and the smell of someone else (not Harry, his brain shouts) from his skin. 

He falls face first onto his bed once he’s in his room and sleeps. He doesn’t remember any dreams when he wakes up and he can hear the coffee maker gurgling in the kitchen, so Ryan must’ve taken the day off. Mitch steels himself.

“Mitchell,” Ryan drawls when he walks in, blinking at him blearily from the kitchen table, and Mitch just flips him off.

“Congratulations,” Ryan says, voice scratchy with sleep, “you haven’t lost your touch.”

Mitch snorts. 

He tries to keep his hands busy with coffee and dry cereal because the milk is in the fridge but so is the green juice that reminds him of Harry, so he goes without, even though Mini Wheats always glue his mouth shut.

“Had a better night than you,” he says, sitting down across from Ryan and taking a sip of coffee. 

“Yes,” Ryan croaks, “yes, you did.”

Mitch smirks and takes pity on him, slides his mug of coffee across the table. Ryan tries to chug it and winces halfway through. 

“How do you drink this black,” he asks, picking it back after a second and finishing it anyway.

“Like you did just now? Coffee is coffee.”

“You’re an animal,” Ryan says, and it just reminds Mitch of Harry telling him he was a monster when they first met. 

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Mitch says, but all he can think about his how he couldn’t make himself want to fuck the girl last night, even though she was willing and funny and exactly what Mitch should be looking for. 

He doesn’t let himself think about what Ryan would have to say if Mitch told him. Instead, he abandons his mini wheats and braves opening the fridge. He bypasses the green juice and reaches for the carton of eggs. 

“Protein,” he says, pulling them out of the fridge and waving the carton in Ryan’s direction, “protein and then we can drive to the beach for the day.”

They go and he only has to pull over once for Ryan to throw up and Mitch gets some pretty horrific sunburn, but at least he can forget about his real life for a few hours and focus on how gross his skin’s going to be once it starts peeling.

**vii. Always coming back**

Harry was always coming back, is the thing. Even if Mitch tried really hard not to let himself think about it.

He spends a lot of his time reminding himself not to think about it. He’s not sure if it was productive or not, but he didn’t expect Harry to text him, because he didn’t even think Harry had his number. And if he’d wanted it, he could’ve gotten it when they first met, but he never asked for it. 

He figures it’s Ryan when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he knows Ryan can wait, so he doesn’t check it for a few hours. Doesn’t really spare it a second thought because this is his life. Real life, where he has a job that’s as steady as it is depressing, and where he lives in an apartment that’s technically too expensive for him with his best friend from college. 

When he checks it, it’s not from a number he recognizes, and the only thing in the message is his name.

‘Mitchell.’

Mitchell, full stop and everything, and the bottom drops out of Mitch’s stomach because the only other person besides Ryan who calls him that is Harry. He has three hours left in his shift, so he doesn’t respond.

Ryan’s outside waiting for him when he finishes his shift, which is weird, even for Ryan. 

“What are you doing here?” Mitch asks, because he can count on one hand the number of times Ryan’s picked him up since he started working here.

“Dude,” Ryan says, leaning his head out of his car, “why didn’t you text Harry back? We’ve been in the studio all day. Get in.”

Mitch gets in and Ryan starts the car and heads for their apartment like any of this is normal.

“Dude,” Ryan says again as they come to a stop at Mitch’s least favorite intersection.

“Dude,” Mitch echoes, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and then, “I was at work. If I called you while you were in the studio and was like, dude, Ryan, Scarlett Johansson just walked into the pizza shop and wants you to star in a movie with her, would you come?”

Ryan’s silent for a full minute.

“Is Harry Scarlett Johansson in this scenario? And you’re me? If so, yes, what the fuck.”

“I’m not gonna leave my job in the middle of a shift, jesus.”

Ryan just looks at him, long enough that he doesn’t realize the light turns green and the car behind him leans on the horn. 

“Mitchell,” he says, and it makes Mitch’s stomach go all squirmy and his phone feels like a brick in his pocket, Harry’s text sitting unanswered. 

“This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and I mean this in the most literal sense. Like, when I took this job here? That was my job of a lifetime. This is yours, okay? Just let yourself fucking have it.”

Mitch does let himself have it eventually. He goes to the studio the first day he has off and Harry’s there, bulkier than Mitch remembers and he’s not bald but his hair is so short that he looks like a different person.

“Mitchell!”

Harry’s moving quickly and throwing his arms around Mitch before Mitch can even react. He lets Harry hug him, tries not to inhale too deep but he can tell that Harry smells exactly the same. Vanilla and Old Spice but fortunately not like Mitch’s laundry detergent anymore.

“I missed you,” Harry rumbles in his ear, and Mitch tries not to shiver. 

He’s not sure he manages, because Harry hugs him tighter and he can feel his back crack, right in the middle, and Mitch isn’t superstitious and he doesn’t believe in fate or anything, but it feels like a sign, the way his whole spine feels like it just heaved a sigh of relief.

“Missed you, too, man,” Mitch says, and Harry’s grinning so wide when he pulls back that his eyes are reduced to slits and Mitch can’t make himself look away.

-

Mitch is embarrassingly nervous the first night Harry decides to crash at his and Ryan’s apartment. He’s not even sure how Harry ended up here, but if he had to guess, he’d say Ryan had something to do with it. 

“It’s not what you’re used to,” Mitch says when they’re in Ryan’s car, and Harry just gives him a weird look and shrugs. 

Ryan glares at him in the rearview mirror and Mitch bites at his bottom lip.

It’s not as horrifying as Mitch anticipated, because Harry’s a good houseguest. He’s just as nice here as he is when they’re in the studio, and he weasels his way into Mitch’s bedroom before Mitch even knows what’s happening.

“So,” he says slowly, looking around at Mitch’s room with his hands on his hips, “this is where the magic happens.”

He turns and smirks at Mitch and Mitch has to laugh at the absurdity of all of it, of Harry being in his room and of the last time Mitch was in someone else’s room and how this is the first magic that’s happened in Mitch’s life since the last time Harry was in it.

“Your bed looks comfortable,” Harry says, and Mitch looks over at him so fast he almost gives himself whiplash.

It’s not even a line, Mitch can tell, looking at him. Every line of his body looks tired, and Mitch shouldn’t feel sorry for him because he’s a multimillionaire popstar living his dream life, and yet. 

“Good for songwriting,” Mitch says after a minute, and Harry takes it as an invitation to flop back and pat the small space left on the mattress next to him. 

Mitch sits down slowly, feels the mattress sink under their combined weight, and tries not to think about the fact that Harry’s in his bed, because he’s made it this far without letting his mind go there, and now, well. They’re here.

“I needed this,” Harry says on a long exhale, and Mitch lets himself fall back, his leg touching Harry’s.

**vii. Jamaica**

Mitch quits his job and he doesn’t even hate himself for it. 

Ryan kind of does, Mitch thinks, because of the fit he pitched when Harry texted him that first time. But things feel different now. Like Mitch’s life has shifted past the point of no return, so he might as well go with it. 

He quits his job because suddenly he’s going to be making more money than he ever dreamed of and he’s going to Jamaica to record an album and it doesn’t even matter that it’s not his album. It’s still enough. 

“We’re going to Jamaica,” Harry says, his eyes glued to Mitch’s ceiling and his fingers scratching gently at Mitch’s scalp.

“We’re going to Jamaica,” Mitch repeats, like if he says it enough times he’ll actually start to believe it. 

He feels self conscious about the cleanliness of his hair even though he washes it every other day, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps threading his fingers through Mitch’s hair like he misses his own. 

“Does it feel weird?” Mitch asks, his mouth tacky and tired and he blames the question on that.

“Does what feel weird?”

“The hair,” Mitch says, and he can feel Harry shrug next to him.

“Kind of, but like. I’ve gotten used to it. It’s weirder when I look in the mirror.”

“I quit my job today,” Mitch mumbles, “I feel like saying it out loud is gonna jinx everything, but I really fucking quit my job today.”

“You did,” Harry acknowledges, his hand slowing where it’s still woven through Mitch’s hair.

“Fuck.”

“Like, good fuck? Or bad? I hope not bad, I’ve been told I’m pretty good.”

Mitch elbows him in the side.

-

“I’m gonna be brutally honest,” Mitch says to Harry once they’re in their seats, “I fucking hate flying.”

The woman in the row in front of them turns around to glare at Mitch and Harry laughs.

“I like it,” Harry admits, “but I take melatonin right before take off every time. Makes me feel just loopy enough that I can tune pretty much everything out.”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shifts in his seat, already uncomfortable, nerves swirling in his stomach.

“I’m happy to share,” Harry says, “if you’re not opposed to self-medicating.”

Mitch holds his hand out before Harry even finishes the last word and it makes Harry laugh and Mitch’s stomach clenches a little tighter. 

Harry falls asleep within the first hour. Mitch is jealous; the melatonin doesn’t do anything for him and he can’t find a single movie he wants to watch. But Harry smells good and his head rolls over onto Mitch’s shoulder and in a lot of ways it’s everything Mitch tried not to let himself think about. 

“Sorry,” he says when they land, wiping at his mouth, “did I drool on you?”

It’s possible that he did, but Mitch doesn’t care.

“I’ll allow it,” he says graciously, and Harry pats his knee and Mitch’s stomach attempts a half-hearted backflip. 

-

They don’t do any work the first day and they stay up late watching Love, Actually at Harry’s request. 

“Your album, your movie choice, I guess,” Ryan says.

“That’s right,” Harry grins, and Mitch can’t suppress an eye roll. 

The couch is obscenely comfortable. More comfortable than Mitch and Ryan’s couch, naturally, and somehow even more comfortable than the couch in the studio in LA. Mitch feels like he’s sinking into it and he’s not sure he ever wants to unstick himself.

Harry’s pressed all along one side and Ryan’s on the other, decidedly less close. Mitch isn’t generally a rom com kind of guy, but Harry’s eyes are glued to the screen and eventually Mitch lets himself get lost in it. Shitty Alan Rickman and sad Emma Thompson and that guy from The Walking Dead who never did anything for him personally, even if Harry’s transfixed and possibly a little teary. 

Mitch freezes when Harry rearranges himself so his head is in Mitch’s lap. Ryan elbows him in the side like he’s trying to be subtle. Mitch refuses to look at him.

The weight of Harry’s head makes his thighs go numb after a while but Mitch still can’t make himself move. The movie ends and everyone gets up and he pretends to be asleep so he doesn’t have to look at any of them. Someone pats him on the shoulder on their way to bed. Mitch is pretty sure it’s Ryan. It smells like him. The stale airplane version of him, anyway. Mitch can tell when they turn off the television even though his eyes are closed. 

Everything’s inky dark when he lets himself open them a minute later, everything silent in a way that makes Mitch sink deeper into his own skin. Harry shifts in his lap but doesn’t wake up.

Mitch must fall asleep eventually, because his neck is killing him and Harry’s gone when he wakes up. The couch is comfortable but apparently not that comfortable, because Mitch is afraid to move his neck it hurts that much.

He can hear a Keurig going in the kitchen but he bypasses it for a shower. His hair feels disgusting and all he can smell is airplane. He half expects all of it to be gone when he emerges, like it really was a dream, but he bumps into Harry in the hallway, shirtless hair still wet from his own shower.

“Gonna make banana pancakes for breakfast,” he says, and Mitch doesn’t like bananas normally but he decides he can make an exception. 

They’re not bad as it turns out, and Harry’s obscenely proud of himself.

“Good, right?”

Mitch just nods, his mouth full. He’s not sure if it’s because they’re in Jamaica or because Harry made them, but the pancakes are actually good, Mitch’s usual opinion that bananas taste like vomit aside.

“Good,” Harry says, mostly to himself, finally sitting down across from him at the table and pouring a truly nauseating amount of syrup over his own pancakes. 

**ix. Dress**

Harry’s big on celebrating, as it turns out. Mitch is just happy to get drunk so he can blame anything he does on the alcohol.

“Halfway done,” Harry slurs into Mitch’s neck, and Mitch is the kind of drunk where his teeth are numb and everything feels warm and rose colored. 

“Half,” he starts and then burps, making Harry laugh and tackle him to the sand, “way,” he huffs, all the air knocked out of his lungs.

He’s probably going to be bruised tomorrow but he doesn’t care and the sand feels cool against his arms and Harry’s a warm, heavy weight against his front. 

“Sometimes I can’t believe we’re here,” he says, and Harry laughs.

“Didn’t think I could convince you to come, mate. Like, come to Jamaica, not like. Come. ‘m good at making people come, usually.”

Mitch isn’t drunk enough for this.

“You’re always like. Solemn,” he continues, and Mitch cracks a smile.

“Not very solemn right now. Or sober. And I came.”

Harry barks out a laugh, probably thrilled that someone’s finally gone along with one of his sex jokes.

“More tequila,” Mitch says after a minute, “I’m ready. And I need it.”

“Right,” Harry says, rolling up and onto his knees next to Mitch, “let’s go.”

-

It’s Charlotte’s dress, Mitch thinks, but it doesn’t really matter who it belongs to. Harry’d stripped in the dark and Mitch was too drunk and it was too dark on the beach for him to see anything significant, not that he didn’t try.

He looks--he looks okay in a dress. Mitch isn’t going to tell him that, but it’s true. His tattoos are a lot to take in when they’re partially covered up and Mitch isn’t sure why. He looks okay in a dress and he gives a long, rambling speech that Mitch is finally too drunk to make any sense of. 

He doesn’t expect Harry to follow him into his room and crawl into bed with him, but maybe he should’ve. Harry doesn’t bother to take the dress off and Mitch can’t decide, brain hazy with tequila, if he’s disappointed or relieved. 

Harry smells like saltwater and lime and he’s clammy and damp and Mitch should push him out but it’s easier to pull him in. He’s had enough tequila that he can probably write it off. 

-

Harry’s still in his bed when he wakes up. Harry’s still in his bed and Mitch isn’t even hungover and Harry’s eyelashes are clumped together from saltwater. He’s drooling on Mitch’s pillow. Though it’s technically not his pillow, Mitch thinks, it’s more Harry’s if he’s going to get technical about it. 

Mitch catalogues the bumps on his forehead. There’s a stubborn one above his eyebrow that’s persisted for the past two weeks, probably further aggravated by the faint sunburn that’s pinked Harry’s entire face. He has to dig his fingers into his palms to stop himself from reaching out and touching. 

He loses track of time and the feeling in his right arm, laying there and staring at Harry’s face, hoping he can slam his eyes shut before Harry wakes up.

He doesn’t. He can’t really make himself look away from the slow blink, Harry’s eyelashes still stuck together and his eyes puffy with sleep. Mitch’s stomach lurches with nerves.

“Hi,” Harry croaks, “‘m wearing a dress.”

“You are,” Mitch says, because it’s an undeniable fact and it’s better than saying I’d like to kiss you and Mitch’s brain is apparently still addled enough that he could let something like that slip out.

Harry just hums, and Mitch just keeps watching him. He has morning breath and his hair is greasy and matted and too short on the sides and Mitch should be running away from all of this. He should’ve gotten up while Harry was still asleep and he should’ve washed last night off of him and downed half a bottle of mouthwash and gone for a run, even though he hasn’t done that in at least a decade. 

Harry keeps blinking slowly at him, his eyes a little crusty with sleep. He’s been eschewing shaving recently and it shouldn’t be a good look on him but Mitch can’t make himself hate it. 

“Don’t freak out,” Harry says, his voice cracking, and then he’s kissing Mitch before Mitch’s brain can even catch up with what’s happening. 

His breath is awful but Mitch leans into it anyway because it might never happen again and he’s been forcing himself not to think about this for months, the scratch of Harry’s stubble on his chin and the flicker of tongue and Harry’s hand on his neck, gentle and pulling him in inch by inch like he’s testing the waters.

Embarrassingly, Mitch sighs into Harry’s mouth and he can feel Harry’s smile. Harry’s hand slides up and he thumbs at Mitch’s jaw, scratches at Mitch’s half-assed facial hair and then pulls back.

“Don’t freak out,” he whispers, his hand still on Mitch’s face.

Harry’s hand is on his face and it’s sticky. Mitch suddenly feels self conscious about his own breath and what his face looks like. He’s pretty sure his nose is sunburned and peeling. 

“Okay,” he says belatedly, and Harry smiles at him.

**x. Guitar**

Harry kissed him and life went on. Harry kissed him and kissed him and Mitch can’t stop thinking about it. He wishes he’d pulled Harry in when he had the chance. He wishes he’d pulled Harry in and pressed himself against Harry like Harry’s always doing to him. He wishes he had the weight of Harry’s body and his lips on him at the same time. He wishes he’d dug his fingernails into Harry’s ship tattoo and dragged them down to the topless mermaid that makes him think of the girl at Barkowski.

“Been thinking about that for a while,” Harry had said after a second, still smiling, then he rolled off the bed and that was it.

“You look different with your hair short,” Mitch wanted to say, and “how long have you been thinking about it?” but he didn’t. He let Harry pad into the bathroom, dress sheer and sticking to the backs of his thighs.

-

Harry doesn’t kiss him again, but he gives him a guitar. Mitch almost swallows his tongue.

It’s now the nicest thing Mitch has ever owned and Harry gives it to him like it’s nothing. Mitch’s mind goes blank and then he’s giving Harry the one he got when he graduated from high school.

“I’ve seen you picking this one up the most,” he hears himself saying, and Harry looks like someone just handed him the sun and Mitch wants to be embarrassed but the hug Harry pulls him into won’t let him. 

He buries his face in Mitch’s neck and Mitch can feel his lips moving against his skin but they aren’t alone. Ryan’s smirking and Jeff is raising an eyebrow and the other Jef is engrossed in his phone like Harry does this kind of thing all the time, which. He probably does.

He can’t put the guitar down.

“It looks good on you,” Harry says, grinning down at him where he’s sitting on the floor. 

His sunglasses start to slide off of his head and he grabs them and carefully slides them on Mitch’s face.

Mitch knows exactly how expensive these sunglasses are but they feel light on his face and he watches Harry tug his phone out of his back pocket and take a picture, the flash going off.

“Really? Hit me with the flash?”

-

Harry still doesn’t kiss him. He strips naked in the studio on the last day and everyone laughs. Mitch tries not to look. He tries to think about the fact that in 24 hours, he’s going to be back in LA again and he and Harry aren’t going to be living in each other’s pockets anymore.

**xi. Tour**

They get halfway through the first tour before Harry crawls into his bed again. 

“I still can’t believe you shaved your head.”

Mitch blinks at him. Harry’s in a white hotel robe and his hair is dripping. He has socks on.

“You shaved your head.”

Harry edges his way into the room and Mitch lets him. 

“I didn’t shave my head.”

Mitch rolls his eyes. 

“Semantics,” he says, because it’s true and he knows Harry’ll appreciate it. 

He’s right. Harry’s grinning and already sitting on Mitch’s bed. The hotel bed, whatever. 

“I couldn’t sleep?” Harry’s voice goes up at the end, and he’s biting at his bottom lip hard enough that it’s gone white.

“Is that a question?”

Mitch’s t-shirt is threadbare and he should probably be embarrassed by it but he doesn’t have the energy and his stomach is clenched with nerves and want. 

“No,” he says.

He’s picking at his cuticles and then Mitch is walking toward the bed because he doesn’t know what else he could do at this point. He sits down next to Harry and then lets himself fall back on the mattress. It feels like a cloud and he’s acutely aware of Harry still sitting next to him. Mitch can tell he’s tense from the hunch of his shoulders.

He reaches out and tugs Harry down. Harry comes, lands softly on the mattress next to him, and licks his lips. 

“If I kissed you again,” and Mitch swallows, lets his eyes flick down to Harry’s lips, bitten red and shiny, “what would you do?”

Mitch bites his lip and tries to blink an approximation of yes in morse code at Harry. 

It works.

Harry’s mouth is hot and insistent and he rolls so he’s pinning Mitch to the mattress and all Mitch wants is Harry’s robe and his t-shirt gone. 

“Please,” he rasps into Harry’s mouth, and Harry pulls himself up so he’s straddling Mitch’s lap and smirks down at him as he undoes his robe. 

“Your fucking tattoos,” Mitch says, struggling out of his shirt, “do you know how much fucking time I’ve spent trying not to think about them?”

“‘M flattered,” Harry grins, then he’s shifting his way down, pressing their bodies together and.

He’s hard and Harry’s hard and Mitch has been thinking about this for over a year now and Harry’s hips are twitching against his and he’s naked and Mitch is still partially closed but somehow it’s still perfect.

Harry’s face is flushed and his breath is hitting Mitch’s face and he keeps trying to kiss him in between heaving breaths and Mitch can actually feel his cock twitch and that’s enough.

-

Harry’s still there when he wakes up. They’re extremely naked and Harry’s eyes are huge and green and he’s already smiling.

“My turn to creepily watch you in your sleep,” he says.

Mitch just kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [here](http://polaroidgirlfriend.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
